Oliver stares at her. She stops at the edge of his bed, close enough to reach out and take his hand if she wants to. If she dares. She wonders if he can hear her heart thudding.
“Two hundred and thirty-three years, two months, one day.” His voice is laced with amazement and horror, as if he has only now realized how very long eternity is.
“I had to take the long way.” She catches a ghost of a smile on his lips as he contemplates her.
“I was afraid I would never see you again.” His voice is hoarse, but she can still hear the relief in it.
“So was I,” she admits.
He takes her hand and threads his fingers through hers. She wants to melt into his touch. She sinks onto the bed next to him. “I missed you.” More than she ever thought it was possible to miss anyone.
Oliver tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a familiar gesture and a gentle caress she hasn’t felt in centuries. “I’m sorry, Bea—”
“Don’t,” she says firmly.
“I wanted to find you.” Anguish darkens his dull eyes. “But there was nothing I could do. I was too late. I should have—”
Beatrix lays her hand on his cheek. He falls silent. “You stayed with me as long as you could. I wouldn’t change a thing.”
“But you’ve waited so long.”
She has. But she would have waited longer—would have waited forever—just to get another day, another hour, another moment with him.
“When you disappeared, I didn’t know what to do,” she admits. His gaze is shrouded in guilt. “I thought about trying to forget you altogether. About trying to make myself hate you. I searched through every memory we ever made together, looking for something—anything—that would make losing you easier. I couldn’t do it.”
Oliver squeezes her hand. There was only one regret she found, one single regret that cut her open every time she remembered him. She leans forward, and her lips find his in a soft kiss. Warmth blooms through her, fights back the chill creeping into her bones. “I love you,” she whispers.
She didn’t know it was love in Venice or at the ballet. Was too scared to admit it might be, when she was dancing with him on the Thames. Knew Oliver was in love with her when he took her to the Whispering Gallery for the first time. And still, she didn’t dare to listen to the whispers of her heart.
She wanted to tell him after the explosion in Barnbow, but it took everything in her to say,Stay with me, and it was like ripping out her heart to admit she didn’t want to be alone. That she needed him.I love youseemed so much less than that. Not even Paris coaxed those words from her heart to her lips.
“I should have told you.” Should have told him every chance she got.
“You didn’t have to.” He wraps his arm around her and pulls her close.
How she has missed this. Missed him. She slips off her shoes and lies down next to him.
He places a soft kiss on her forehead. “I love you, too, Bea. Always.”
Beatrix leans against the kitchen counter, staring out the window over the sink. Wisps of clouds race across the gray sky as she waits for the kettle to come to a boil. Zoë had shown her where the mugs were kept, had dug a box of tea bags out of the pantry, then promptly excused herself.
She hasn’t gone far. Beatrix can hear her whispering with Luke, just across the hall in the living room.
“I’m not saying he’s lying,” Zoë says. “I’m saying what Oliver believes and what’s true might not be the same thing anymore.”
“You found her where he said she’d be,” Luke says. “He wasn’t delusional about that.”
“So? He could have met her anywhere.”
“Theo believes him,” Luke says pointedly.
“Theo said Oliver didn’t lie about her,” Zoë says. “That’s not the same thing.”
The front door creaks open, then slams shut. Heavy footsteps approach. Stop. Beatrix’s pulse quickens.
“Where is she?” Theo asks.
The kettle whistles—screams. Gives her away. Beatrix pulls it quickly from the stove. Her ears ring in the deafening silence.
